Specimens and Snowflakes
by Zandyne
Summary: [Focuses on Vexen and Riku Replica] Before he lost his heart he was searching for an answer to every riddle. Now that he has his heart back, he's revisiting a bitter lesson he never quite mastered.
1. Another Afternoon

_For Sasameyuki, I finally caved in to your request... A curious canon AU based on the question, "What if the Organization had actually succeeded in Castle Oblivion and got back their hearts?" Specifically this focuses on the interactions between Vexen and the Riku Replica._

_In the very least this will be a fic about companionship. It may grow into a "romance" depending on its development, so a 'maybe' warning in advance if it bothers you, but you have my word as a writer that it will be nothing graphic. I will also WARN YOU if it becomes that in the chapter that it begins. This is quite an experiment, so any feedback or reviews would be most appreciated. Enjoy._

----------------------------------------------  
**Specimens and Snowflakes**  
----------------------------------------------

_"I...We..." He could barely say the words. He wasn't supposed to be able to feel it, but he was in awe._

_A voice to the side of him brimmed with pride, "Yes, isn't it amazing?"_

_"We succeeded..." He wasn't supposed to be able to feel it, but he was relieved._

_The voice laughed, "I know, we can finally have our hearts back."_

_He placed a gloved hand on his chest; a practically forgotten warmth pulsed beneath his fingertips, "Our hearts..."_

"Vexen!"

He squeezes his already shut eyes together even tighter. The darkness of sleep is pulled away like a curtain and the muted light of the outside takes its place. He sluggishly raises his hand to the slim bridge of his nose and presses the small dips of the corners of his eyes. He takes a deep breath and the scent of summer blooms mixed with healthy fields and the perfume of polished oak wood fills his lungs.

"Vexen!" The cool voice calls to him again.

He murmurs a yawn to himself. He rubs the back of his bare hand to his heavy eyelids. He can now hear the accompanying footsteps and tired breath of the voice's owner grow louder.

He opens his eyes against the bright photograph of the field he can see from his porch. He shifts about in his cushioned chair, one of his legs is numb from being propped awkwardly against one of the porch's wooden pillars. He doesn't have to turn his sight to know who the person who has been calling his name is.

He hears the automatic intake of air from his familiar companion. "Vex-" the childish voice begins to say. Vexen scoffs loudly and the other silences as though he knows he has done something wrong. The other is right in assuming so, Vexen thinks to himself.

"I told you not to call me that," he curtly tells his visitor.

"But-" the other voice begins in typical beseechment. Vexen points up a ceasing finger. The voice quiets once more.

Vexen cranes away his focus from the earthen quilt of grass and sunflowers. He leans against the flat of his knuckles and points his green gaze at the boy of a companion he created. "It's Even, Repliku, and I suggest you address me as such accordingly or I will **conveniently **forget that you hate mushrooms."

The silver-haired boy clearly balks at the remark, but he quips back all too wittily at his threat, "Then you have to call me Niseno. -I don't know any better unless I have a **good **example to follow."

Vexen rolls his eyes to himself at how overzealous his companion can be at times. Specifically when it comes to the boy thinking he is real and constantly pesters Vexen to believe in the paper charade as well.

It happens everyday, it's practically clockwork.

The accustomed routine begins with the prerequisite of the boy calling him by his fake name, him calling the boy by the name he had given him, and then the boy retorting that he too deserved to be called by his reformed name.

And come hell or high water, Vexen finds himself falling into the same sentimental trap each time. No matter what he does, Vexen always winds up looking into those sea-green eyes that always plead with every bargaining sincerity to not be reminded that he is a fake.

It is only natural that today will be no different. Vexen once more succumbs to the tugging sensation in his chest that he calls petty sympathy.

"Fine." The blond grumbles out. He is already adverting his grouchy gaze from the triumphant expression Niseno wears whenever he wins their rigged game of trivial banter.

He can still feel the pride radiating from the boy even though he is trying to focus on the patches of sunflowers by his porch. Vexen and the boy are silent as they revel in the buzzing of insects and whispering leaves. The edge of Vexen's lips twitch from the lack of activity. Irritably he recalls that Niseno was calling him for something.

"What is it that you wanted Niseno?" He manages to ask after noticing a particularly plump dragonfly landing on the railing of his porch.

The boy flinches out of his temporary state of blithe glory. He rubs the back of his head, his unnatural silver bangs dancing about his face as his fingers pull back. He gives a typical chuckle as he smiles at Vexen, "I was wondering if we could have mango ice-cream today."

He feels his face tighten into the rarely absent mold of disapproval. Vexen waves his hand in a dismissive gesture at the request. The boy's posture shrinks down with the weight of impending failure, his mouth drawing out into a thin line of growing disappointment.

Vexen mentally brushes off Niseno's meek demand as something that stems from an artificial sense of immature stubbornness. He reclines back into his wood-woven chair, assuming that now that the boy has been given an answer he'll leave him alone.

The boy does not move from what he can surmise out of the corner of his vision.

He hears the feathery creak of Niseno's joints contracting so that he can step closer to persist in his verbal quest for a treat. Vexen's patience wanes at the realization of the possibility that for once, Niseno isn't taking denial as an acceptable answer.

Vexen always expects this response, but he has never prepared for it since he placed vain hope in its impossibility. He associates the hapless negligence he garners with his possession of a heart. But he cannot find the finality in his conviction on the matter.

Ever since the battle to find his identity had ended, Vexen finds himself without many reasons to conform to the methodology of his previously emotionless incarnation. He constantly buries the murky memory of that part of himself.

But this does not spare him the burden of his personality or the impact of his trials.

He is still very much the same as the Even that had originally studied under Ansem the Wise. He still falls prey to his old habits and his cynical tendencies. He still holds onto faint paranoia that he must fit into the category of being the unrelenting advocate for prude order and prim rules or he will perish for good.

Vexen gladly adheres to this self-inflicted measure as he brings up a hand to flip back his bangs. He knows that it is a feigned distraction, but it provides him with ample time to concoct a suitable excuse for his decision.

It doesn't matter if the boy is the perfect contradiction of a scientifically beautiful abomination. It doesn't matter that he lives up to the definition of being the replica of a boy who was easily led astray. He will not receive any special treatment, not now, not ever.

"Niseno, you haven't **done **anything to warrant a sudden reward," even to Vexen, his voice sounds too spitefully sardonic. He waits with disguised bated breath for the response he wants to evoke from the boy.

As if following an invisible script, Niseno expresses the dejected medium between a pout and a grimace. He sees the boy turn and hears how his feet heavily retreat back into the abode. He almost feels guilty for using such a tone towards such a mentally young individual. _Almost_.

Vexen smiles to himself at the achieved solitude. Predictability is his comfort just as logic is his tool.

His heart pricks with a tiny pain that says otherwise.

Though the boy is something he created and can almost be an entity that could be classified as his son, he has to constantly remind his heart to not feel any shred of guilt for coldness towards his puppet.

Niseno is merely a complex plaything, nothing more.

His half-hearted smile fades at realizing how the throb in his chest continues to linger.

Vexen presses his fingers to his forehead. It is a surviving habit of his whenever he is trying to ingrain an idea or elusive fact into his mind. He digs his fingers ever harder into his forehead.

Having a heart is supposed to be the end of his internal battles, not be the instigator of them.

His hand recoils from his face at the sound of metallic clanging and a loud yell. Vexen swerves around in his chair and stares wide-eyed at door.

A feeling of foreboding oozes in the pit of his stomach. A terrible wisp of something organic being burnt wafts through the cracks of the door and window shutters.

Vexen growls at the foolishness of what he assumes is Niseno trying to gain his favor. The blond gets out of his chair and stomps to the door. His hand wraps around the door knob much like he would like to wrap his hands around the troublesome boy's neck for all his taxing worth.

Having a test subject to observe is supposed to enthrall him, not leave him feeling the woeful strife of a floundering parent.

He presses through the door with great haste. He doesn't even bother to remain near the entrance long enough to hear or feel the door shut behind him. He doesn't spare a glance to any of the cardboard boxes that crowd the incomplete living room. Vexen walks speedily forward with grated teeth and brewing vexation to the barely new kitchen.

He shoves open the door, fully unequipped to deal with the sorry sight that the aroma of burning spawned from. He halts just out of reach of the loosely hinged and still swinging kitchen door. An irritated hiss escapes from him despite his best intentions to remain collected and detached when dealing with the boy.

Niseno sits forlornly on the smooth floor, expression skewed in the most jagged characteristics of disapproval. The boy's brilliantly yellow clothing is covered with a thick compliment of tomato sauce. The red substance coats his arms and face in a way that implies it wasn't spilt on him, but rather exploded.

He is too distracted with the task of rubbing off the offending ingredient onto his blue pants to pay any attention to the growing lake of rich vegetable that is spilling out from the capsized pan by his feet. Or even to realize that the stove is very much on with still wildly burning blue flames dancing above the black metal grates.

He doesn't even notice Vexen's frown deepening to a murderous level as the man seethes rigidly in spot at the sight of the chaotic mess. He doesn't even notice that Vexen's emotions make themselves quite apparent in how the stove flame is abruptly extinguished with the acute summoning of solid sleet and ice.

Despite every single mental warning and conscious attempt at restraint, Vexen finds his hand lunging out for Niseno's bare shoulder and forcing him up to his feet. He feels his jaw locking and failing to hold in the spiteful anger that is already boiling over.

"What the hell are you trying to accomplish?! Are you trying to burn the house down with your FOOLISHNESS?! DON'T ACT LIKE SOME PIDDLING CHILD, I DID **NOT **CREATE YOU TO-."

He feels Niseno rip out of his loosened grip. For a terrible moment he catches sight of the pained glare on the boy's face as he storms out of the room. He hears the boy's retreating footsteps of denial trail up the polished wood stairs.

He silently stands in the kitchen. He doesn't understand why he acted so rashly, so violently, so uncouthly.

Vexen doesn't understand any of the actions that played out all too quickly. He refers to the stove-top encased in ice for answers. It offers him none.

The dark part of his mind coos chidingly to him, tempting him with a long forgotten answer. He nervously shakes off his conscience's baiting and looks at the upturned belly of the silver pan.

_"But why Master Ansem?! We're so close in completing our data on the Darkness!"_

Vexen feels his chest and throat clenching at his own folly.

_"I only wanted back what I lost, nothing more."_

He grasps his chest to ease the thorny pain that's beginning to crush his heart.

_"Hearts are a fragile thing. Just because you got it back this time doesn't mean its become any stronger."_

His vision begins to flicker. The white ceiling and cream tiles stained with succulent tomato become nothing more then blurry shapes of light and dark. He feels his knees buckling and jolting sharply against the tile.

_"Are you trying to say I might break my own heart if I'm not careful?"_

He feebly braces himself against the cool tile. He feels burning water squeezing out of the corners of his eyes. He presses his hand against his chest even harder to silence the pain that seems to elicit from his heart with every beat. He feels his breathing become more jagged at each increase of horrible agony.

_"...Think whatever you want Vexen."_

He curls against the floor to block out pain that has no logical origin and seems to possess no end. His eyes are already shut and pressed tightly enough that he can see false light pulsing in the darkness. His breath turns into a more erratic pace with the addition of his own anxiety at recalling what he once read in a book that told him he was having a _cardiac infarction_.

Vexen feels his own grip on his consciousness slipping through his fingers like ethereal water.

Just as the last drop slides out of his hands, Vexen swears he hears the soft padding of feet near him. He swears he hears a familiar but sullenly cool voice mutter, "So you do care Even."


	2. Maybe Tomorrow

_Thank you for the reviews! Believe it or not your kind words help me write these out! I would have posted this around a month sooner if I hadn't gone on so many trips. Once again a big thank you to everyone who reviews!_

_Now as for this chapter...it is much longer than the last one, with any luck, it will have been as good if not better than the last one. You may interpret any of it however you see fit; but am I leaving you clues or showing you another breed of red herring? As always, I'd love to hear any comments or feedback. Other than that, enjoy!_

--  
**Specimens and Snowflakes  
**--

_Vexen sees nothing but darkness. He feels nothing but the dull throb of weakly pulsating electricity all over his body and a sharp blistering of pain in his chest. He tries to speak to himself and he hears his own echoing voice, "Is this what it feels like when a heart cracks?"_

_A warm voice with no definite gender echoes back to him, "Sleep will stop the damage. Memories will make the bindings. Happiness will help your heart heal."_

"_What? Who are you?!" He struggles with the heaviness of his own limbs to attack the voice but he is still far too weak. Instead he lashes out verbally and angrily as though his words can harm the unknown voice, "Don't mock me with that sentimental drivel!"_

_The other voice continues in its tolerant benevolence, "Shush, just sleep."_

_Vexen strains against how uselessly his limbs fail to respond to his splintering rage, "SHOW YOURSELF!"_

_The caressing voice sighs almost happily at his response, "Do you want to hear a lullaby?" Vexen reels back mentally and emotionally. A wobbly melody of a tune begins to fill the jostling void. Despite the uncertainty in its volume, its hummed lyrics are clear. Vexen's hatred drains out as though the tune has pierced his boiling contempt._

_He rolls back to the sleep that is his unconscious. The colors that are supposed to be dreams bleed into watery focus, but this time it is not one of Vexen's typical dreams._

He stares out of the chilled window with a tightly clamped mouth that conceals his awe for the outside. Frost taints the corners of the glass and a fine confetti of cold dances just outside the barrier. He presses up against the glass, breath clouding the window with fog and heat as he tries to find the origin of the entrancing white shapes. He peels away, tromping over the benches and couches of the warm living-room to the granite tile by the door.

He hastily tugs on a thick woolen jacket over his pale arms and tosses a knitted scarf around his neck. He sits down with a hard thud onto the slight cliff of the interior floor that cuts off to the pit where their boots lay in disarray. He tugs them on hurriedly, this is the first time he has ever seen snow before.

He taps the back and tips of his boots resolutely to ensure that they fit snuggly onto his feet. He knows the importance of keeping warm during this winter season if he wants to avoid being sick. He finishes checking his boots and throws the rest of the thick fabric tail of a scarf over his face so that his neck is fully covered.

He practically leaps across the small area in front of the door so that he can pull open the handle and go outside. He doesn't know how long the sky will continue to bear its quiet blessing, and he doesn't want to miss it.

As he opens the door a taste of chill brushes past him, a maternal voice rings out from the inner core of the house, "Even??"

Even's chest tightens queasily at recognizing the anxious tone. His mother can be so... _**'suffocating' **_his mind supplies in slight dour. He stands by the door quietly, waiting in wavering hope that she won't call for him again. He hears the sandals thudding authoritatively against the carpet.

He takes a nervous gulp and decides that he's going to go against mother's wishes for once and do what he wants.

He lunges through the invisible barrier of obedience, door slamming shut behind him. The snow crunches loudly under his feet, and his body shudders forward with each difficult step against the elusive and charging ground. He continues to run out into the blinding white field of erasing snow. He laughs breathily as he tries to keep up his burdensome tempo.

Even knows he is going to be free from his protective mother for only a little while. In this precious respite he is free to think his perplexing thoughts at his own pace, free to act in his egocentric manners, free to finally breathe at his own leisure. But this time is precious and waning, his legs beg for mercy as he blazes onwards to distance himself as far as he can from his cage of a domicile.

He begins to see his vision speckle with light, he can taste something close to blood pooling in the back of his mouth, his lungs and legs hurt as if they've been bruised beyond recognition. Even slows down, nearly collapsing as his legs jauntily land onto the powdery layer of the gently beveled ground.

He stops trying to continue his shaky walk and places his naked hands heavily onto his knees. He breathes harshly, his throat burns from the excessive exertion of his spurred escape.

The snowflakes continue to fall around and onto him. He coughs due to the scratchy sensation that rises from the sorest pit of his lungs. He can feel the dulled stings of the drifting ice as it lands on his exposed skin, but it doesn't bother him.

Even stands up straight and begins to take up his slow pace as he continues to regain his spent energy. He swirls around to scour the area for any memorable landmarks, he finds none. He realizes in slow dread and eccentric jubilation that he does not know where he is.

There is a creeping tingle of something unfamiliar treading over his meek collectiveness in the back of his mind. He looks down at his rubber cobalt boots for consolation and safety from the anxiety that lurks in his thoughts.

_**'What do I do?'**_

He digs his numbing hands into the thick pockets of his overcoat and bites back his festering apprehension of never finding his way back to civilization. His cheeks burn with backwater shame at the grave evaluation of his own predicament and he shrugs his scarf to hide the red on his face. The child in him wants to throw a tantrum over the negativity of the situation, but the seedling adult in him refrains from admonishing his immature thoughts.

He huffs to himself and the imaginary audience that always criticizes him. He walks farther into the wasteland of artic sleet that is sprinkled with the black facades of local forest. _**'I'm not a coward... I'm just taking my time to get to where I want to be,' **_his mind buzzes defensively to a nonexistent accuser.

Even walks for what he assumes is a long time, he has no idea how far he has traveled but the sound his boots make against the snow is a beat that is beginning to drive him insane.

He starts into a haphazard dash to break the monotone that was cornering him towards the brink of glutted annoyance. He runs blindly, stumbling over rocks and hidden roots that had long ago broken through the safe embrace of soil.

He lets out a yelp and spins in futility to fix the error of his clumsy running over a particularly tall hump of a knobby leg of a tree. He hits something soft but extremely sturdy in his frantic clamor.

He pushes against it as though it is covered with thorns and crashes to the mildly cushioned ground with a small squall of affront. He hears laughter from where he is currently viewing the colorless ground.

With angry haste he regains his standing and glares at the source of the rumbling chuckles.

Even sees a much older man whose presence glows with the humble aura of avid knowledge. He wears simple clothing, a thick coat of off-white and a heavy article of a scarlet scarf that makes him stick out from the surrounding wonderland of ice. His hair is blond and combed back in the most formal of manners despite his currently doubled-over expression.

Even indignantly reprimands the stranger, "H-hey! I-I-...Watch where you're going old man!" Although Even is angry, he fumbles over his words so that he sounds more surprised then he wants to let on.

The stranger chuckles even more at the boy. Even bristles at it.

The stranger runs a hand through his hair to smooth it back and smiles at the boy, his beard curling up to accentuate the warm expression.

"My sincerest apologies child, I was simply entranced by how lovely the day was! I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

Even sputters. He wasn't expecting a kind reply, "Y-yeah...w-well..."

Even's green eyes look into the stranger's amber ones which hold a glint of regality and indefatigable cheer. Something about this stranger feels familiar and disarming, as though he's acting out of place by keeping eye contact with him. Even's hands wring over one and other, he stops the nervous action when he realizes how he hadn't finished his sentence.

Something...something is off about this man.

Even feels a weight on his thin shoulder. His eyes dart to the source of the hanging pressure to see that the stranger has placed his arm around his shoulder.

"It was completely thoughtless of me. I know it might be hard for you to accept my apology so for now I think I should at least get you something to eat before we go our separate ways."

A feeling of distrust sparks within Even and he ends up glowering at the overly-polite stranger, "I don't fall for tricks like that."

At first the older man is surprised, as if the concept is as unfathomable as any cataclysmic taboo spoken aloud. Even wryly smirks to himself, lately he's acquired a twisted taste for outwitting others. He rather enjoys the sickly, yet delicate relish and satisfaction he's developed in confirming his status of superiority in the verbal fields.

It is the only strength he has that the children who play so freely cannot seem to match him with. A quick tongue can parry his peer's chorus of petty insults.

Abruptly the blond haired man laughs as though the implications were sheerly whimsical. Even's wine-warm pride crudely shatters just as the man claps Even cheerfully on the shoulders. He nearly yells out of surprise because of how brusquely and optimistically the stranger ensnares him in a suffocating bear hug that threatens to squeeze the air and pessimism out of him.

Even struggles vainly against the power of a man who surpasses him in brute strength and plastered smiles. He manages to squirm just shy of blacking out from the other's eager embrace. He takes horribly throaty and dried wheezes as he continues his futile struggle. His lithe frame is being jostled around by the older man and the sing-song of mismatched refined tone, ecstatic laughter and anticipation brimming with hyperactive joy.

"Well then my boy- Allow me to invite you for a little to have some crumpets and tea! I assure you that they're simply marvelous! Enough to die and come right back to life for in fact!"

Even squawks in protest and feebly hits his hands against the arm of the other man. "K-KIDNAPPER! HELP!! HEEEEEEEELP!"

The stranger quickly lets him go as if Even is a pot of overflowing acid. But in successive hindsight he catches the crook of Even's arm to prevent him from colliding with the ground again. Even stops yelling at being released from the vice grip while simultaneously being saved from his own psychotic flailing.

Even sloppily recollects himself and irritably pulls his arm out of the stranger's loosely outstretched hand. Even brushes his blond bangs out of his eyes and shoots the man a conceited glare. Once more not according to his expectations the man looks utterly puzzled, hurt and bewildered. His amber eyes take on an almost dim brandy shade, as if the light of the spirit within has been smothered to the point of breaking.

Even can't resist the curious temptation to ask what is so upsettingly wrong with the man. But the man's silence is a short-lived opening for his question.

The stranger breathes out deeply and remorsefully. "My apologies little friend, I keep on forgetting that I am not at the castle and that your generation prefers much more distant relations doesn't it?"

He glances off to the side with a watery smile and begins to trudge forlornly off in a direction that could have very well been the despairing ends of the earth.

By the time his face is obscured by his retreating form, Even's eyes widen to a size that decimates any record his expressions of surprise or shock had previously set.

His jaw drops from the unrelenting force of realization and gravity, "Y-you...you're-" The stranger halts and Even steps mechanically up to the stranger's turned back. He reaches out his unsure hands to touch an all too familiar and prestigious insignia of an embroidered Eden and crown entwined by golden thread.

His fingertips ghost over the unique fingerprint of an emblem that gave daunting new meaning to all the mysteries set forth by the stranger's presence.

He was never expecting that one so respected looked so much more differently then he had envisioned. Even would have never connected that any of the books he breathed and treasured would have been connected with such an eccentric man.

"Ansem the wise-" he croaks out. The stranger who is no longer nameless turns to Even with a wordless grimace of a barren smile. Even backs away as if a brutal monster is before him, not the sagacious King of their world.

"I-I'm sorry-!" He takes another step back, disgrace seizing his ability to breathe or properly control his emotions. A lowly subject mocking a godlike King, it was unheard of.

"I-I-I-didn't know!" Even shakes violently as he continues to shy away in shameful horror from his majesty. Terrible and black guilt sprouts within him now that the tables of respect have been abruptly twisted apart. Order was to be kept, mistake or not, Even knew that he was going to be punished for his blatant besmirching of one so distinctively admired despite the shawl of enigma that constantly surrounded him.

Ansem approaches him much too quietly and all he can do is continue his harsh whispers of desperate apologies that escalate in pitch and grow shriller with each repeated amend. Just as the older man stops near him, Even throws his arms protectively around himself as if expecting an executing blow. _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry._

A subdued voice carries up to his ears and past his blotted vision, "You don't have to apologize."

Even drops his arms and blearily quakes out a disbelieving "_w-What_?" A fading chuckle answers him as a vacuum of silence engulfs him once more.

He slowly opens his eyes, but instead of the snow-tinted vision of his memory, he sees the humid sight of the house he has too recently moved into. Achingly he reaches a sticky hand up to his sweat-beaded forehead. Vexen lets out a breath he is too unwilling to believe is a sign of relief.

_Only a wretched memory._

His thoughts momentarily linger on Ansem the Wise, an outdated role-model, a man once his King and teacher. The corners of his eyes grow soft and he chases away a pang of guilt of him and the other student's betrayal with the rationale that _'nothing can be changed'_.

Vexen shifts about where he lays as a cloud of sudden tiredness hazes over him. The firm cushion sinks and rises in accordance to whatever joint he moves as he settles back into a resupine state that commonly encouraged for him to sleep. He freezes in his habitual fidgeting to a rather dull and inconclusive realization that he had been somehow _teleported _from the kitchen floor up to his room.

Instinctively he sits up and looks down to where his still numbed legs are to see the source of a previously unnoticed weight came from.

What appears to be a comatose mop of silver hair rests by his unblanketed calves. Vexen stares at Niseno sitting loyally by his side despite their previously sloppy differences. The blond notices that Niseno is no longer clothed in his sullied garments, but is instead wearing one of Vexen's own crisp white dress shirts and pants. A contradiction of reprimand and sincerity crosses his mind over Niseno's change of apparel.

His mind shifts in focus at noticing the lingering orange and red glare of the afternoon light as well as the ebbing pinch in his stomach.

Vexen motions to swing his feet off the bed but thinks better of it. After a quick internal debate he reaches his thin fingers out to gently nudge the side of the boy's head to see if he is truly asleep.

A sensation of slumbering heaviness regards him as he gingerly touches the side of the boy's pale face. Vexen arrives once more at a common but misplaced disappointment in that he and the boy cannot be on better terms. His eyes trail down the visible gap left by the oversized clothing that fails to cling to his creation's body until it lands on the serial number he poetically placed on his chest during the preferably forgotten days of Castle Oblivion.

The singed silhouette of a heart with a centered numeral four looks back at Vexen from where he sits quintescently on the bed. He pulls back his hand with a sinking feeling that isn't as expected as disgust or as comforting as weariness. His green eyes casually flick back over the sleeping form of the boy to notice a small piece of paper clasped in his hand.

Not one to starve his innate curiosity, Vexen delicately pulls it out of Niseno's grasp. A message of barely legible blue chicken scratch regards him.

_"I cleaned up the kitchen like you would have told me to. And I already started up the laundry- sorry I don't like prancing around naked so I borrowed a shirt, I'll put that back too, later. I would have tried dinner but we're out of cereal again._

_PS: You're heavy to carry."_

A nearly acrid warmth flickers in his chest. A ticklish _feeling _creeps up his throat and he scoffs to himself in bittersweet humor. Vexen spares a glance at the snoring false child. He shakes his head to himself with bemusement and slides off the bed. _Petty sentiment._ His mind mutters to himself yet he continues to walk as quietly as he can down to the kitchen...

Melodies of crickets sound through the sticky air, he breathes happily into the smooth sheets. His hands reach out in front of him and feel a cold and empty gap. A sharp intake of breath and Niseno's chest constricts like a trap seizing prey. He searches frantically with his eyes and open palms over the bed as if the lack of the original occupant in it is a trick of the retreating light.

A scent of vivid tomato and starch comes to his attention as he perks up like a hound catching the trail of the faintest quarry. In a loud dash he barrels down the polished wood stairs with a great leap and practically breaks down the swinging kitchen door with a thrust of his outstretched arm.

Hovering over a robust container on the stove, a ladle held professionally in hand, is Vexen in an unflattering evergreen apron. Niseno gapes at the sight before him despite the fact that the concept of Vexen cooking is not an alien one. The blond casually regards how Niseno nearly tore the door off its hinges with a mild downward quirk of his mouth. With a brandishing flourish of the spatula as if it is a teaching stick, Vexen points to the tiny dining table and chairs made of weathered Oakwood.

Cautiously Niseno approaches the flat area as if the objects of the kitchen will devour him whole if he doesn't tip-toe to where Vexen is so sternly pointing. With great hesitance, he takes his seat at the table as if he is to be trialed rather then prepare himself for dinner. The boy looks at the table and sees two neat sets of napkins, plates, ceramic mugs and forks.

Despite how practiced Niseno is to their dinners- Vexen cooking it and the meal being promptly eaten in utter silence- this certain meal carries an almost _sacred _air.

The researcher carries the steaming pot over to the table and scoops out generous helpings of angel-hair noodles onto each plate. Niseno takes an indulgent breath of a fresh aroma that carries a meaning beyond the simple noodles that lay on his plate. He scours his mind as to why he feels so gifted for receiving this meal in particular.

Vexen takes back the half-used pot and produces a carton of milk from the relatively empty refrigerator in the corner of the linoleum domain. At filling Niseno's glass to nearly the brim, he finally manages to ask the question that's been buzzing in his mind, "Uh...Vex-" the man falters in his adeptness to poor his own glass of milk. Niseno flinches and corrects himself quickly, "Even-, I thought we usually ate that awful-...y filling... oatmeal...stuff. So what's this?"

The scientist stows away the milk and announces matter-of-factly, "How spaghetti is _supposed _to be made." He wipes his hands on his apron and steals a quick glace at a much smaller pot still cooking on the stove. He hastily adds on a hushed remark just out of Niseno's hearing range. _"Pity we have no paper, else you could have taken notes on how there is **no** mess..."_

The younger of them looks down at his plate and mumbles an enlightened, "Oh." He directs his attention to the turned back of Vexen and continues his confused inquiries, "But when I messed up the other things, you never..." his breathe hitches on itself at his pessimistic words, "did things like this."

Vexen dutifully slides the small pot onto the kettle mat in the middle of the table and pulls off the mitt he'd used to carry the hot container. Once done he takes his seat to complete the puzzle of a typical evening dinner. He knits his hands together in front of his face and takes on an expression as though he is going to begin a lecture pertaining to the deeper workings of life, "Niseno, that's because I've never felt...I suppose 'compelled' would be a suitable word, to 'do things like this'."

He sighs deeply, cynical eye-roll cleverly hidden from the boy's perceptions by closed lids, "I would rather that the events from earlier didn't end so..._uncivilized_, so here is my way of...possibly offering a truce for my past errors."

Niseno gives him an owlish look, jaw slightly skewed to the side as if he was stuck mid-chew on an apple, "So..._truce_...that's like an apology right...?"

Vexen presses his mouth to his hands to seal off the escaping air of the ambiguity of his previous terming, "I would assume it's called that in some places."

The boy laughs at the statement despite Vexen's businesslike tone. He shrugs his shoulders dismissively and makes a move for the pot that the luscious smell of ripe vegetables seems to come from. He lifts up the silver cover and a gush of powerful steam pours out. "Weeeeell in that case I can't accept the apology...since Vexen would **_never _**do something like that anyway, not unless this was a dream or maybe-"

One of Vexen's brows shoot up, a cross tug on his lips as he enunciates a sour quip, "Oh I _assure _you that this is _not _a dream Niseno. I suggest you use your skills of deduction to figure out _why_." The older man deftly dips the silver ladle into the piping hot pot and serves himself a generous helping of the sauce within. Courteously he repeats the process for Niseno's plate with a serpentine grin on his face.

The silver-haired boy's expression falls at seeing the rich combination of tomatoes, meat and _mushrooms_. He nudges the plate away with a repulsed finger as if the contents of the dish are violently contagious.

He gives Vexen a waning look of sympathy as if he'd been wronged by the offered food. Vexen, not one to waste his own cooking, cheerfully helps himself to the spaghetti.

Between elegant forkfuls of delicious sustenance, he glances up to Niseno who continues to give him food-starved eyes that whine with hunger. "I'm sorry for burning the pan Even..." he whimpers into his plate of terrible vegetables and noodles.

The scientist kindly ignores it up until his meal is half devoured. His fork stills and he takes up his glass of milk instead. He feigns examination of the movement of the milk as if its sloshing is ridiculously mesmerizing. He drawls his introspection at surveying the creamy liquid, "I'm enthralled that you have some sense of repentance in some fiber of your body, be it by your stomach it appears this time...but you don't need to apologize anymore than I do."

Niseno's face fills with befuddlement and hurt as a puppy reprimanded with a newspaper.

Vexen downs his entire drink in one motion. A sweet current flows down his throat with heavy satisfaction, though the contentment does not draw from the dairy product. He gazes over the emptied glass with cursory nonchalance, "Eye for an eye Niseno, I've already had my pound of flesh by the looks of it." His absinthe eyes flick from the cup's rim to meet Niseno's sea-green ones, "Consider yourself forgiven of your transgressions if you can forgive me for mine. All I ask is that we seal this deal with a simple meal."

The boy's confusion lessens at the cryptic explanation but disquiet still looms thick over their humble table. Vexen quickly loses interest with the lack of a prompt response and resigns to continue his consumption of his relatively cooled dinner.

Solitary metal taps the ceramic plate in peaceful metronome. Niseno finally works up the courage to break the chilled accord, "But you didn't need to apologize."

The utensil hits the plate with a loud clank that borders cracking it.

The blond haired man looks up with a weariness that is bellied by candid intrigue, "And **what **would lead you to that conclusion?"

Niseno wiggles in his seat as if there are dull tacks laced upon its wooden surface, "Well...because of the whole...nearly burning down the house thing... I mean any sane person would react like that s...so..." His voice pitters away at the foreign sensation of admitting his own faults. Open humbleness is painfully apparent in that it is not his forte.

_Person? That's right isn't it?_

Vexen wryly laughs to himself, "I won't repeat myself concerning that. Now finish _all _of your dinner so I can get the dessert out."

The boy gawks again at Vexen as if all he had spoken were Cheshire Rhymes.

The blond smirks with the most minor curl of his features, "I would think you would make haste given it's ice cream today."

Not another protesting or questioning word was spared. The boy dutifully takes upon the task of forcing down what he loathes at the prospect of reward. Vexen observes with jaded inconclusive thoughts what the boy overcomes more willfully at the idea of receiving something he desires.

_The optimistic will- no, the greedy folly of a child._

Niseno crumbles into the back of his wooden seat and forces down the most recent mouthful of what he considers the most unholy meal of his life. With borderline kindness, Vexen takes away the messy plate. The boy screws up his face and his tongue hangs out of his mouth in disgust at the taste of ever unwelcome mushrooms. Vexen shuffles about the kitchen and deposits the dishes into the sink to be rinsed later. He props open the overhead cabinet and retrieves the appropriate fresh bowls and utensils.

_He cannot have the folly of a child if he is not a child._

Niseno is still making unintelligible gurgles over his dining ordeal by the time Vexen breaks open the seal of a carton of brandless ice cream.

As Vexen hands him his own bowl of the dessert, the boy mercilessly shovels down the substance as if it is an antidote to poison. A half-empty bowl clacks back onto the table before Vexen can even savor the first spoon of his own sugary treat.

_But, his words...his words, those..._

The boy heaves a heavy sigh, a happy glow on his face. Vexen meekly ignores it and quietly eats his meager portion of creamy delectable. He is distracted by the innumerable contradictions circling in his mind, lusting after whatever remains of the logic in his mind. After all, this extent of kindness is in no way something he would have done, but he **felt **it to be logical. A repeat of the ill-placed warmth sprouts in his chest, yet there is no pain, only a confusing comfort- and that is what confounds him the most.

_What is happening to me?_

He searches his mind for a comparison as to what ails him. His mind only yields a familiarity to the anguish he experienced in the kitchen earlier at the confrontation he had with Niseno. Vexen's mind only grows more blurred at trying to connect the two. He cinches his brows together and presses them with his fingers without even realizing it. Eating no longer occupies his mind as a priority, only the pandemonium in his head.

_Nothing makes sense._

"Even."

He unintentionally looks crossly at Niseno's oddly level addressing. Vexen calmly recollects his composure with a whisper of a tired sigh, "Yes Niseno?"

"Thank you."

The wave of smooth warmth spreads in his chest again, it nearly stings enough to turn his vision white. His throat is caught by an enigmatic chain of emotion and surprise. His jaw slacks in what can qualify as a flabbergasted gape. His lips draw back together as the simple words fully sink in.

The tender warmth in his chest finally overflows and carries to his face. He forfeits the battle of fronts. Vexen's mouth draws into a sleepy crescent.

"You're welcome. Now hurry up and finish, we have a lot of work ahead of us tomorrow."

The boy gives an enthusiastic nod and wolfs down the scant remains of his food.

Vexen lightly stirs his melting ice cream, strange smile still lingering on his face.

_Things can make sense tomorrow._


	3. Never Forgotten

_Sorry for the long absence (wow, almost a year, that's rather scary), I have had quite the writer's block. Hope this chapter as well as other updates will make up for my long down time! As always any feedback would be most appreciated.  
_

_Also, I apologize in advance for the slightly different tone, as well as change in tenses, that are included in this chapter; hopefully it will not be too jarring. Enjoy!_

--

**Specimens and Snowflakes**

--

The sun had crept along the horizon toting the invisible weight of its brilliant glory along with the new day. Summer birds ruffling their feathers and practicing their early choirs could be heard among the vast plain of mingling sunflowers and unchecked tall grass. Eventually this herald of good-mornings and its accompanying sunlight became more vivid as the sun reached a higher angle of its hike through the sky, beams shining all too happily upon a well-kept, homely, but rather alone abode.

From the scantily open windows, loud creaking and abhorrence for the very daylight existing could be heard from Vexen as he emerged from his respective bed. He gave a grouchy glare to the lazy shutters that had failed to keep out the assailing gift and with contradicting annoyance, resolved to just throw open the windows the rest of the way so that the powerful rays could surge into the otherwise dark room. _Horrible ball of burning gases…_

Although he hissed in tight recoil at the light, he brushed off the ache in his eyes and mind as he readied himself in demure ritual for the heavy work-day ahead of him. With a heavy sigh his mind raked over dozens of trivial calculations of what would be most efficient as well as excuses to put off the task for another day.

However, his perchance to tidiness overruled his tendency to shrug off menial labor despite the reluctance that still lingered in his decision. He was about to finally tackle the bane of whenever someone moved to another locale, unpacking the rest of the house.

_Damn whoever thought it was brilliant that moving pieces was easier than moving whole buildings._ He scrunched up his nose as he thought who could have possibly invented the notion, only to scathingly realize: _Ah yes, the laws of reality, physics and modern inconveniences._

He cast a fleeting glance to his unmade bed and decided to tend to it later, head too muggy to deal with certain morning practices in their usual order.

He made the short journey to his rather clean bathroom and turned the small tap, the rest of his mind only snapping to full alert as he splashed deathly cool water over his face. As he rubbed the water out of his eyes he recalled the day before and the events that had happened in it; he decided it was worth the risk to look at himself in the mirror above his humble sink.

He'd never been one to care or pay careful attention to his outer appearance, but he had to see for himself if he really had changed at all. Unsurprised or relieved that he was still the same man, if not healthier looking, and predictably, not as prim hair as usual, he reached for a striped washcloth off the nearby rail to dry off his face. _What was I expecting?_ He berated himself. _The only difference is internal, why would the external be affected at all?_

Despite his mental confidence he still tossed the washcloth angrily back onto the brass rail. Without another furtive glance or thought, he proceeded to do the rest of his daily hygienic routine, by the time he had emerged back from his bathroom he was dressed in a fresh set of clothes and a towel was lying atop his soaked head; and as expected, the day had now taken up its never missed humidity of the summer norm.

The scientist spent few moments actually making his bed this time, his other mission was searching for something to tie his hair back with. He'd managed to find an elastic band which miraculously emerged from within the mattress but didn't think to question further as to why it was lodged there. Vexen bound his hair behind his head into a neat but comfortable ponytail as he trudged barefoot down the barren hall to the smaller but just as empty guest room Niseno slept in.

Not much to Vexen's surprise the boy was still sleeping in a curled but sloppy ball on top of his sheets with an uncomplimentary line of sleep going down the corner of his mouth. He gave one curt, "Niseno, time to wake up," as warning, and as per usual, the boy scrunched up into a more condensed fetal position, air of drowsiness indicating that he wasn't about to leave his bed.

_Typical._ He mentally sighed to himself.

Vexen then proceeded to do something his inner parental-sadist secretly enjoyed, nudging Niseno off the bed just enough so that he'd teeter on the edge of falling off. And just as expected the results were as amusing as they were effective: A quick yelp, thud and an indignant set of childish complaints about how 9am was an ungodly hour to wake up at.

He nonchalantly stroked the side of his chin as he watched Niseno flail messily on the floor in a tangle of his own bed sheets, voice cooler than his entertained stare, "I told you that we'd have a heavy work day ahead of us Niseno. You should know by now that when I say things they are either true or I **make** them true."

The boy straightened up in as intimidating manner as he could manage in clothing that dwarfed him. He scowling in vain as he squinted his eyes against the light beaming into the room. He whined at the older man, "That doesn't matter! Can't you be just a little less tight? Jeez, you're not my **mom** or something."

Vexen frowned without malice, tone taking on a horrific, sugary air, "Oh but my _wittle smookums gummy-whummy_ Niseno _needs_ to get up," he took a breath and his voice turned chillingly frigid, "or else _mommy_ _Even_ might just decide that Niseno needs to camp outside just to **appreciate** the value of three square meals a day and a bed to sleep on-"

He stopped himself as he caught sight of the dread on Niseno's face, what caused it he wasn't sure of if it was the _way_ he had spoken or _what_ he had spoken about, but it had certainly worked in scaring the entire color palette out of the boy. He smirked at his handiwork and mentally congratulated himself for being a brilliant orator.

The boy got up quickly and set his bed the neatest Vexen had ever seen him do, as the scientist paced about the room gathering up his thoughts for the work they were to accomplish.

As Niseno set about doing his own, albeit much sloppier task of getting ready, Vexen shuddered to himself at realizing in brutal hindsight just _what_ he had said to Niseno.

_He is __**not**__ human, he is __**not**__ my friend, he is a __**fake**__, a __**clone**__, a subject to be researched-_ His mind battered in quick session as it fleetingly tried to convince him that he was not trying to be _friendly_ with something that was the sophisticated equal of a colony of Amoeba. He pressed his fingers to his brow as hard as he could without drawing blood.

_A very sentient, sophisticated and endearing colony of Amoeba._ His mind automatically supplemented much to his inner horror.

A chill ran down his spine as he recalled the lapse in him being himself and the exact uncharacteristic taunting that had emerged from his own lips.

_Wittle smookums gummy-whummy? _

Vexen shook his head, wanting to banish the memory from the fibers of time if not at least his memory, forever.

He cursed at himself._ The only difference is internal. INTERNAL._ His eyes glistened with extra wetness and he felt he ought to do something to assuage the pressure in his chest, but pride said he shouldn't show any sign of weakness, no more than he had already. It was a sensation much like the instance from the day before, but this time, he could swear he felt something like a spring of laughter bubbling in his heart instead.

The two eventually head downstairs, having a brief breakfast of milk and toast, with Niseno trying to draw out eating his own piece of then-cold toast until lunch. Vexen wound up having to encourage him to speed up at the threat of treating him to mushroom deluxe stew if he didn't hurry.

Even though a part of Vexen personally agreed with Niseno in putting off the unpacking in some minute degree, he didn't show it, rather put on the farce of prudent enthusiasm as they came face to face with the inordinate amount of cardboard boxes that sat in the neglected living room.

The scientist had decided the best way to organize the contents of the boxes was to go by "breakables" and "non-breakables" after failing in his many attempts (despite his best efforts) to explain to the boy what were the differences between things from _Radiant Garden_, _The Castle That Never_ _Was_ and _The Other Place_ were. To Niseno all of the beakers, equipment and books looked about the same, the only differences in his opinion were how many pieces they might possibly break into if he were to drop them.

To be on the air of caution and the most efficient way Vexen saw it, was that he had to personally go through all of the boxes and hand the objects for Niseno to put X into Y order or in Z location.

Amazingly enough and despite Vexen's foreboding thoughts on progress, they had been able to go through about four boxes of books and random flasks and beakers before Niseno's curiosity started to get the better of his seemingly weak department of common sense.

"Well this looks pretty interesting," Niseno noted as he looked over the strange metal and cylindrical object. He seemed particularly keen on the shiny dial at the base of it and the look on upon his face was a perfect picture of how badly he wanted to find out just what would happen if he _turned_ it.

Vexen irritably grabbed it from his hands, and figured the best way to satiate the boy's curiosity without getting something destroyed was to just tell him whatever object he gawked at the worst possible accident that could result from it. "This is a Bunsen burner," he explained slowly, "don't touch the dial, I'd prefer if I wasn't required to move _again_ because of the house being turned into a heap of ash." Even if the necessary parts for the gruesome destruction missing, in the Bunsen burner's case, the source of gas, but the boy didn't need to know that.

"Oh." was the dead reply that came from Niseno, whose expression suggested he hadn't forgotten the incident with the tomato sauce, a certain pan and the stove.

The blond sighed and handed it back to him, "Take it over to the other beakers and flasks." And before Niseno could ask, added, "Also known as the 'funny glass shapes'."

They continued about their task, Niseno carrying the contents of the boxes to and fro. Soon yet another box was empty, and Vexen had began stripping off the tape of a new box as Niseno stretched during his small respite from organizing things he was totally ignorant about.

The older man saw him stretching from his peripheral, noted how much even his own muscles ached from being hunched over the boxes and wanted desperately to have a break, but stubbornness kept him at his task. But nonetheless, he did seem to be working slower despite not being fatigued…

Niseno looked about the living room and how it was now filled with glimmering containers both empty and filled and covered with words he could only fathom how to pronounce or try to understand. He was quietly in awe of all of the strange things Vexen possessed and even though he did not enjoy or really ponder why he knew how to write without having read a single book in his life, his interest in the tomes they unpacked piqued the latent parts of his oblivious mind.

Aware of the strange silence that had creeped up in the room, Niseno cast a glance at Vexen who appeared to be having trouble with the contents of the new box. One thought was that he should walk over to see what the trouble was, another thought told him to stay put, a third thought suggested a happy medium, where he could just ask Vexen what to do next.

Vexen himself stared down into the depths of the box, anger, terror and sick gratitude of what the contents reminded him of. The entire box was simply filled with the little multi-colored cards with numbers in one corner and a crown-prong cut design along the tops of all of them. He partly wanted to reach in to pull the cards out, but the greater part of him wanted to cast them into the deepest, darkest and most brimstone laden _pit_ that was available to him on that world.

"Uhm, Vexen?" came Niseno's unsure voice.

"W-what?" came a more shaky than intended reply from the older man.

The boy just stared at him, confused about the sudden spike in vocal weakness. His foot twitching as his brain pondered what the sudden change of heart in Vexen meant.

Vexen's mind churned with more uncertainty and haste than he'd rather not delve into. He pressed his fingers to his temple again. _Best to bury that rather dark chapter of 'life'._ His mind had to correct him about his unfavorable personal history. _It'd be more accurate to call them 'chapters' wouldn't it?_

"Is that a box of cards?" The innocent tenor of a question shook him from his introspections.

The scientist gritted his teeth and braced the top of the sides of box as if the inquiry itself made him queasy. The boy nonchalantly reached into the box and pulled out a card that appeared to have a rather stylized picture of an icy crystal printed on it. "Neat!" He reached his other hand in and fished out a full splay of random cards with images of the elements, bottles and leaves. From the mess he'd grabbed he was looking through them as a gambler would at a rather promising poker hand.

"I didn't know you liked cards this much!" Niseno kneeled down to the box, beginning to sift through them with greater earnest, as if they were cards with redeemable value rather than ill karma. He continued looking through them, eyes practically glowing with fascination. Vexen stared at him numbly if not with a hint of trauma glossing his features.

_How can you smile at these damn things?_

Vexen's mouth suddenly seems very dry as he tried to explain the horror and the memories those wretched pieces of paper represent and mean or at least berate the boy for being so careless around them. As luck would have it though, he was saved the trouble of needing to explain, or at least, saved from the moment of beginning a tirade.

The boy now held two cards that were exceptionally different from the others. They lacked the colorful border and number in the bottom-right corner. Another difference was that instead of them having simplistic pictures they had detailed portraits, specifically of himself and Vexen.

Niseno's eyes lingered on the cards for some time, jaw suddenly unable to work out proper words.

_Theoretically_, Vexen's mind began in bitter retrospect; _he shouldn't have any memories of it._ He somewhat envied the boy initially for this blessing of artificial amnesia, but at seeing his face, his reaction, the scientist suddenly didn't feel as burdened for having a recollection of what happened in Castle Oblivion. _Things could have been far worse_, he rationalized. _Memories are how we create control, if by controlling your own memories you can have more control over your actions, the better off you are. Better than being a puppet with memories for strings like this poor boy._

An ill-suppressed memory of the wretched castle begins to crop up; Vexen's frown deepens as the brief slide-show flicks through the events in scratchy succession. Much to his ire he has to credit his survival to creating false memories.

"_You're lucky that traitor didn't finish you off Vexen," came the cool voice from the side of his vision._

_The blond turned fiercely and imitated a scowl at the younger member and the silent other member by his side. "Does it matter? With all the information I spilt to that keyblade wielder it's a matter of time before the OTHER neophyte tries to exterminate me!" He spat at the ground, a reflex at the disgust and darkness that had been drowning his tongue._

_Zexion shrugged the shoulder not holding the black book. "I'd like to think my illusion of your death was convincing enough." He paused, and added with dead-pan sarcasm, "Where's the gratitude beloved Vexen?"_

"_If I needed your help I would have-" he attempted to badly justify his pride._

"_What? Finished being burnt back into nothingness by the traitor? I thought you were the most academic of us." Vexen glared even harder into his cool grey-blue eye, Zexion immediately closed his book, deciding business would come before taunts._

"_Anyway, no need to worry Vexen, we found the evidence needed against Axel. Besides, Marluxia was actually easier to convince after Larxene was distracted. Once Axel's gone the plan will proceed as normal, believe it or not."_

_Vexen growled at him, the prospect of being used as bait was one that ill-suited his ego._

"_Oh, one other thing Vexen, we don't need to use the Replica anymore."_

The white-haired boy finally began to recall how to speak. "Well, that's weird, I didn't know I was on a card brand." He turned over the cards in his hands, like he was looking for an emblem or some other indicator it's some sort of cheap trick.

The scientist visibly winced at how the boy rationalized it. Vexen took a deep breath, and gratingly, attempted to go with the weak justification, "I am… just as surprised." His eyelids end up sliding closed as he tries to suppress some freakish blend of relief and not wanting to deal with the cards.

"Hey V-, Even, can we keep these?"

Vexen eventually pried one of his eyes open to look at the child. Sprinkling on some selective lies for why the boy can't keep the cards would be suspicious and possibly create more instances of error on the redone memories. "…Certainly" he finally ended up saying, albeit with barely covering up his reluctance in doing so.

The boy didn't catch it, and hopped up from where his knees were aching with being in hard contact with the floor. There was strange enthusiasm in his voice, "Is this why you were so anxious to unpack today?" Niseno's face broke out into a broad and awkward smile for some reason.

The blond man stared, head half-tilted at him, somehow enunciating an audible question mark.

"We finally have photos!" Niseno comments happily.

"Photos?" Vexen echoed half in stupor.

The boy motioned with the cards in his hands, expression beaming as if it was the easiest action in the world, "Well every photo album needs to start somewhere."

The scientist immediately regained his emotional bearings, or in the least his cynicism. He snorted at the notion the boy was suggesting, "A photo album, for _what_?" The bitterness apparently had been filtered out by the boy's perception, he replied in the still-optimistic tone as he did the previous statement.

"For memories of course!"


End file.
